


Madness! Madness!

by pprfaith



Series: Wishlist 2014 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Community: wishlist_fic, Cracky, Derek is a Failwolf, Ficlet, Gen, Language, Pack!Fail, Prompt Fic, SO MUCH SARCASM, Sassy Peter Hale, Sassy Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:44:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which neither Peter nor Stiles take well to being left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madness! Madness!

**Author's Note:**

> Peaceful_fury asked for Teen Wolf – Peter & Stiles – “Sanity is madness put to good uses.” – George Santayana
> 
> This one was fun. I hope you enjoy it. :)

+

Stiles is human and Peter isn’t trusted. 

That’s what it boils down to. 

Every damn time. 

They do the research, hell, half the time they are the ones that realize there needs to be research in the first place, and they put it all together in neat little packages and the pack reads the first half page of notes and runs off half-cocked, with a snarled command from Derek Peter and Stiles to stay put in the loft, or else. 

It grates. 

It fucking grates like hell, because it’s not like Peter is the oldest, most experienced wolf they have, or like Stiles keeps saving the day, regardless of his lack of claws, fangs and healing factor. 

It was Stiles who held up Derek in that damn pool for hours and it was Peter who figured out how to kill the Pookas that took up residence in the preserve and ate children. 

They’re good at what they do, at least as good as the other betas and they’re not afraid of getting hurt and really, “Peter we don’t trust you” got old after a year. 

There comes a time where you either kick a man out or let him in, but this continuous half-assed looking-in was going to drive the oldest Hale away one of these days and Stiles would fucking applaud him because he’s so. Annoyed. 

It’s all crap anyway. 

Sure, there’s pack structure and they’re the omegas and omegas don’t traditionally fight and Derek only wants Stiles safe, blah, blah, but when has Stiles ever been safe and since when are they in any way a traditional pack?

“I give up,” Stiles snaps, arms flapping, as he watches the pack disappear out the door, eager to go and kill themselves a nest of vampires.

Because Stiles leads the kind of life where that sentence makes sense. 

Peter, sprawled on the couch like it’s a throne, grins. 

“No, seriously,” the boy repeats, “I give fucking up. Throwing in the towel here. Done. Fertig. Over. Let them get their dumb, furry asses killed. I’ve had enough.”

He stands in the middle of the loft, staring forlornly at the stack of print-outs he put together for the ADHD wolves. It’s color-coded. There are bullet points. Reading it would have taken about five minutes. 

But no, they all skimmed the first page, where it said stakes and decapitation work, grabbed a few sticks and ran off to cross possible locations – compiled by Peter – off the list.

“They’re going to make such a racket that the vampires will know they’re coming three locations before they actually do,” Stiles groans, flopping down next to the other omega. 

“You could have informed them of the most likely location,” Peter points out. 

There’s an abandoned apartment building – condemned – in the city center, close by what little nightlife BH has to offer. That’s where they’ll be, they’re ninety percent certain. 

“Locations were your job,” Stiles points out, which means, _you could have, too_. But they didn’t. And the pack ran off without a plan because that’s what they do, and Stiles and Peter wait like the fucking fifties housewives they aren’t, for their big, strong wolves to return from battle. 

What fucking ever.

“Mario Kart?” Stiles asks, already snaking his way off the couch and onto the floor to crawl toward the game console and switch it on. He throws Peter one of the controllers and works out his frustration by shoving the older man off Rainbow Bridge about three dozen times.

+

The pack comes stumbling in around midnight, literally. Erica walks like at least one of her legs was broken, hanging off of Boyd, whose face seems to have recently been acquainted with a wall or two. 

Scott is holding his ribs, Derek is generally ferocious and covered in blood, which, really, Derek? Isaac is limping as well as holding his shoulder. 

Stiles gives them a quick once-over, finds that no-one is bleeding out of any orifices or holding their guts in, and then goes back to slinging Baby Peach around the cute little penguins at breakneck speeds. They brought it on themselves.

Not the penguins. The werewolves.

Peter seems to be of the same mindset, because he doesn’t even look away from the screen, except to tell Erica to budge over, she’s blocking his view. 

She growls, Peter growls, Derek growls louder and Stiles glibly asks, “So, how did running off half-cocked work out for you?”

The growl turns into a snarl. “You didn’t tell us their skin hardens! The stakes barely went through. We only got a handful, Stiles!”

Stiles nods toward the discarded sheets on the table. “Page two,” he tells Derek. “First bullet point. I told you to read that shit, Sourwolf.”

He slams into Bowser and takes first place. 

Derek, who has gotten marginally better about physical violence within his own pack, looms over Stiles and barks, “Stiles!”

And Stiles, being the good little omega he is, gets up and helps patch up the worst wounds, pats people on the head and commiserates over how they failed epically because they never fucking listen to him. Or Peter. But mostly him. 

Then he says goodbye, grabs his things and leaves the loft with a wave and a promise to text when he’s home safe. 

Derek snaps at him not to get his idiot ass killed and Stiles salutes him with a single digit. 

Business as usual.

+

Stiles doesn’t drive home. Or rather, he does, but he doesn’t stay there. 

He picks up the empty gallon plastic jugs he’s taken to collecting – useful for all kinds of things – and throws them in the back of his jeep. Before he takes off again, he rolls through his bed a few times to make it look slept in. Precaution. 

He drives. 

At a T-section he stops. Left-hand turn, gas station. Right-hand turn, church. Considering who he’ll be meeting soon, he decides to go right. I’ll be a bigger mess, but Peter gets that wild look around the eyes when there is fire. 

Still.

Always.

Stiles would feel guilty for setting the guy on fire that one time, but he deserved it and they’re past it now. Approximately a thousand hours of waiting for their idiot pack to come back to them in pieces will do that to a couple of guys who hate each other’s guts. 

He parks at the back of the church, fills the jugs with water in the nearby cemetery and then lugs them all into the house of god, where he places them on the altar and starts muttering in Latin. 

As per the bestiary, the words would be enough, a blessing spoken by anyone, but Stiles figures he could use the extra kick and fills his hip flask with holy water straight from the church, as a last line of defense. 

Then he drags all the heavy goddamn jugs back to the jeep and drives. 

+

Since the pack was beaten so soundly, there was no reason for the vampires to move. Arrogant fuckers. 

Peter meets him a block away from the nest, a bag full of pointy, pointy objects over his shoulder. 

“Distribution,” the older man asks, as he takes a look in the back of the car. 

Stiles holds up two bags full of water balloons. Without a word, they get to work. 

+

It goes quickly, after that. Fights, in Stiles’ not inconsiderable experience, always do. 

He busts in the front while Peter takes the back and they throw holy water bombs at everything that moves until the vampires are a writhing, smoking mess on the floor. 

Then they wade in, armed with stakes longer than Stiles’ arm. It takes effort to stake the fuckers, but since they’re prone on the floor and his stake is almost as tall as him, he makes it work. 

It’s all in the shoulders, really. 

Fifteen minutes later, only an oily layer of dust and a lot of burst balloons tell the story of what happened. 

There’s blood spattered on Stiles’s face, a cut down his forearm and he can’t seem to stop giggling. Vampires. He just slew a nest of vampire with his zombie werewolf buddy from hell. 

How do you even?

He presses a hand to his mouth and breathes through his nose until the giggles pass. Peter, waiting patiently next to him, just keeps on grinning like the lunatic he most likely is. 

Okay, definitely is. 

“Done?” the older man asks, when Stiles finally lowers his hand. 

“Not nearly,” he answers, voice still warbling with adrenalin.

Stiles sets the fire while Peter is a safe distance away, giving the fire department an anonymous tip. They don’t want downtown to go up in flames because of them. 

Fifteen minutes after that, they sit in Stiles’ jeep in Peter’s driveway, silently watching the aura of the fire above the dark and silent town.

“So,” Stiles says, “that was fun.”

Peter flashes blue eyes and smirking fangs at him. “Yes, it was,” he agrees, then flutters his lashes, simpering, “you take me on the best dates, my dear.”

Stiles laughs, a little hysterically. He’s still coming down. He has to be excused. 

On impulse, he grabs the flask from his pocket, unscrews it, “To thinking before acting,” he toasts and then takes a swig of holy water, because why the hell not. 

Peter snorts, grabs the flask from him and drinks, too, complaining about the flat, stale taste. 

“How about next time, you supply the drinks then?”

And the older man winks as he slides out of the car, answers, “It’s a date.”

Stiles laughs all the way home.

+

“So guess what,” Scott asks, slouching into his seat two minutes late the next morning. 

Stiles spins his pen between his fingers. “What?”

“The vamps are gone,” the werewolf proclaims.

“Yeah?” Stiles mimes surprise.

A nod. “Yeah. Their lair burned down during the night. After the beating we gave them yesterday, they probably decided to turn tail and run. Burned down the place to destroy any evidence. Beacon Hills is safe again. Awesome, huh?”

Stiles wants to ask what ‘evidence’ a bunch of undead mass murderers would possibly care about, but he’s not one to poke a sleeping wolf. Really.

No, really. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, instead, slapping his friend on the back. “Congratulations man. You guys did it again. Well done, Scotty.”

Scott beams. “We’re badass,” he crows, little too loud, considering they are actually supposed to be paying attention to the teacher in front. History. Blegh.

“You totally don’t have to worry about us so much, man. We’re fine without you!”

He means it as a good thing, not the slap in the face it is, so Stiles sighs and lets it be, mournfully thinking that this way, the puppies will never learn. But what else are they supposed to do? The pack may consist of idiots, but they’re Stiles’ idiots and he knows Peter thinks the same, even if he’d never admit it, on pain of death. 

Stiles shoots Scott a grin, winks at Erica as obnoxiously as he can, across half the classroom. She bares her teeth at him and crosses one leg over the other, perfectly healed. 

He smiles. 

It’s a bit crazy maybe, but it’s his and he’s going to keep it.

+

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Madness! Madness!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466231) by [Algorithms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Algorithms/pseuds/Algorithms)




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